


Maison des Loups

by Freya_Ishtar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark, Drama, F/M, Folklore, Gen, Ghosts, Haunting, Mystery, Romance, Smut, Spooky, Werewolves, abandoned places
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:42:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25616824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: To escape the trauma of the war, Hermione visits her grandparents in the rural French town where her mother was raised. Accepted by the townsfolk like a long-lost child, she feels at home, but the quaint village is hiding something. Something to do with why her mother left, the wolf her grandfather has captured, and her dreams about a man who seduces her by moonlight.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Fenrir Greyback
Comments: 36
Kudos: 173





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes:
> 
> Plunny behind this fic loosely based on the Netflix series Curon. Specifically loosely based on what I thought was happening in the first few episodes before what's really going on starts being revealed, so if you've watched it, don't expect too much overlap, but you will easily see the bits of backstory/lore/scenery that were taken from the series.
> 
> Warnings: This fic will have moments of humor and levity (because that's just my style), but it is a dark story that will contain adult and horror themes. These themes may include: episodes of PTSD/trauma-recovery, violence, self-harm, smut, mentions (but not displays, graphic or otherwise) of infanticide/child harm, miscarriages, psychological terror, manipulation. More to be added if/when necessary on affected chapters. Proceed at your own risk.
> 
> WE'RE JUMPING RIGHT INTO THE SMUT HERE IN THE FIRST CHAPTER. I DO NOT WRITE PRUDISH HERMIONE. She was a strong, curious person, unafraid to take charge in the books, why should anyone think she'd be different when it comes to sex?
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, or Curon, nor any affiliated characters/circumstances/scenarios, and make no profit, in any form, from this work.

**ONE**

Hermione barely held back her scream at his final thrust. Hard and deep, he clung to her as he stilled, his breath gusting against her skin in sharp exhalations while he nipped feverishly at her throat, her chin, her shoulders. She couldn't move yet, her body clenching sweetly around him as he spent himself.

The thoughts started beating at her brain the second her orgasm began to ebb.

She didn't even know him. That hadn't frightened her when she found him standing in her room in the dark of night. The scent of him that could only be described as wild—woodsy and rich, yet strangely crisp and briny, possibly on account of the water dripping from his bare body, giving her an image of swimming in a lake, perhaps—should've unsettled her. Should've struck her as feral, somehow. And _yet_ , she'd found it inviting.

That he'd stood nude in her room hadn't fazed her, which was another troubling thing in hindsight.

There'd been no internal voice shouting at her to stop as she'd peeled back the covers of her bed, revealing herself to him—welcoming him. No sudden spike of fear as those golden eyes and that skin splashed silver from the moonlight spilling through the window beside him moved toward her, proving himself not a figment of her imagination. She didn't think herself capable of imagining the way the faint wash of pale illumination danced across the lines of his muscles, anyway.

His touch set her pulse hammering beneath her skin as he tore her nightclothes from her. It seemed impossible that his lips were deliciously soft as they brushed over her, given how solid, how hard his body was against her comparatively delicate form. His fingers, gentle in their ministrations yet rough to the touch seemed to stroke everywhere, leaving no bit of her unattended.

And then it happened.

Somehow, her legs were around his hips and she was bracing for him. His rough-but-gentle hands gripped her thighs, holding her still as he rammed his pelvis, filling her entirely in a single quick movement. _God_ , it hurt . . . but mingled with the pain was also a shivery warmth that made her want it again.

Tremors wracked her, dizzying and decadent, each time he withdrew. Moans she tried to quiet escaped her throat at the pain-laced sweetness of every entry.

She came hard. Shamefully hard, she would think later—or, well, _now_ —given the circumstances, her eyes squeezed shut and her hands clamped over her mouth to keep from crying out.

When her limbs loosened and she relaxed completely beneath him, he at last withdrew entirely. Those golden eyes held hers as he eased himself up onto his elbows over her.

How could she have done this? How could she have let this man touch her like this? Yet, she had. Eagerly.

He seemed strangely familiar, but she couldn't understand why.

Swallowing hard, she asked in a soft voice, "If I had asked you to go when I first saw you standing there, would you have obeyed?"

He nodded. Just once, the movement decisive, certain.

That . . . that helped, actually. If he'd not responded, or magically found his voice and said something toxically male and asinine to insinuate that there was no way she'd have told him to go, that would've made her feel wronged. Taken advantage of despite her willingness at the time. She disregarded a momentary, decidedly archaic concern that she'd so thoughtlessly 'given away' her first time, seeing as she _had_ been willing. There was a certainty in her that had any of the boys she'd dated touched her like he had, rather than clumsy gropes under her robes while snogging, hoping she wouldn't bat their hands away, maybe she'd have lost her virginity sooner.

"Why did I do this?" She didn't expect him to have answers—she also had no idea why she wasn't asking more pressing questions. Like who the bloody hell was he, and how did he get in here? Maybe whether or not entering young ladies' bedrooms in the middle of the night to shag them senseless—provided they didn't panic and throw him out on his arse—was a common habit of his?

He didn't respond, but those golden eyes appeared sad for a flickering heartbeat. Lifting a hand, he traced her lips with the tip of one finger.

She held his gaze, feeling strangely as though he was trying tell her something with that look, alone. His other hand slid down her body, over her abdomen, along her belly, and she let it. Her breath caught in her throat as his fingers slid between her thighs.

Did he perhaps understand that the act—pleasurable as it had been—had hurt her? She had a sense that he did, that he was trying to make up for the unintended pain as he stroked her, slow and gentle.

A tingling sensation washed over her, warm and sweet, and she found herself reaching toward him. She cupped his bearded jaw with both hands. He didn't kiss her, instead nipping at her lips.

Why did if feel like she knew him?

He coaxed her until she came, his gaze never once leaving hers. She clamped her lips together, keeping in whatever noises threatened to escape. Huh, she was a noisy lover, who knew?

That blissful rippling faded and her body settled against the bed, the tension draining from her limbs in a wonderful rush. Catching her breath a little, her hips still rocking hopefully beneath his touch, she managed, "Who are you? At least tell me your name, won't you?"

* * *

Hermione awoke with a start. Her eyes wide, she didn't dare move, simply darting her gaze about her room in her grandparents' resplendent cottage. The sun was streaming through the gauzy curtains hanging over her windows, and there was no sign that anyone, let alone a wet, muscly, frustratingly silent man, had been in here with her.

She didn't want to look down, actually. Didn't want to examine herself. Yet . . . . How embarrassing. She was in her nightclothes and all tangled up in her bedsheets, as though she'd . . . yep, as though she'd been writhing about in her bed, all alone. She didn't need to move to feel that this _blushingly_ realistic dream had left her knickers soaked.

Well, perhaps a dream explained why she'd behaved so illogically. God. Her body was throbbing with the memory, alone. Ginny was right. To hell with virginity, a nice, thorough shagging would probably do her a world of good.

"All right, Hermione, get your arse out of bed," she murmured, but didn't move just yet.

After a few minutes of arguing with herself, she finally trudged her way to the bathroom.

" _You don't_ have _to go," Harry said, even as he faithfully lugged her trunk up the station steps._

 _She'd much prefer to rely on her beaded bag, but if she was summering in a Muggle village, she needed to behave like a Muggle, and showing up on her grandparents' doorstep with no luggage would draw attention. So, letting them meet her at the station outside the quaint rural village of_ Maison des Loups _was her only real option._

_Smiling wistfully, she caught the other side of the trunk when he reached the top step, helping him bring it to a row of seats. "I don't have to, no, but . . . . I just need some time and some space away from everything that reminds me of the War. Just long enough that I can start sleeping through the night again."_

_Her parents were home, safe, rebuilding was due to start shortly, and the mourning for those lost had taken a grave toll. She knew she needed to get away. She simply wasn't sure about coming back. Her mum and dad had wanted to see her off, but she insisted that parting with Harry after so long was going to be an emotional thing and really, only Harry was accustomed to handling her outbursts._

_Oh, she knew she would return—she'd always come back to her friends, to her parents—but it was nice fantasy to entertain sometimes._

" _You could always come with me," she offered, grinning. "C'mon! You, me, sipping wine straight from the vineyard as we get picked on by the locals for being 'strange'? There's plenty of room."_

 _"Is there? You keep calling their house a 'cottage'. In my experience, cottages aren't_ roomy _."_

 _She scowled at him. Curse him for remembering her precise wording. "I only use the word cottage because it's a country house, which_ _—_ _in France_ _—_ _would typically be called a chateau, but it's not quite big enough to be considered a chateau, nor was it ever home to a nobleman, and I'm not sure what else to call it. Blame the French, not me."_

_He chuckled. Typical Hermione with her off-handed, rambling explanations offered with such ease. "Well, that sounds appealing, but then I'd have to bring Gin, and then Ron would insist on tagging along."_

" _Oh, no, no, mm-mm." She crinkled the bridge of her nose and shook her head. The potential relationship between her and Ronald Weasley had gone downhill as fast it had started. She needed time and space away from him—and him from her, she imagined—as much as from the familiar sights and sounds of England. "No, you're right. Stay. It'll be just like summers when we first started Hogwarts. I'll write you every day!"_

_Green eyes narrowed skeptically behind wire-rimmed glasses._

_She pouted, nodding. "Okay, not every day, but_ often _! And Ginny, too! And probably Neville, and Luna—"_

" _And Ron?" he asked, eager to smooth things over so they could all get back to being friends, once more. Hopefully by the time she returned from France, Ron would've gotten a handle on his feelings and things would be like there were, again._

_After a moment of shifting in place, she rolled her eyes. "Fine. And Ron. In a few weeks, once I've decided whether or not to forgive him."_

" _When is up to you," he said, holding up his hands. He knew Ron's behavior after the war, or perhaps more specifically after their first kiss, had been the problem. Deciding—or as she'd put it, dictating—that she could no longer be friends with Viktor hadn't gone over well. A simple matter of writing him a letter to tell him she was safe once things had settled down and suddenly Ron equaled Mount Vesuvius on a bad day._

 _Or at least that was the reference Harry assumed Hermione was making when she told the ginger-haired wizard she was_ not _going to be Pompeii and he could keep his tantrums to himself, thanks very much!_

" _I just want you to be happy," he concluded, smiling warmly._

_She nodded. "Wish everyone felt that way."_

" _He wants you to be happy, too." At least Harry had the good grace not to sound sour at one of his best friends disparaging the other. "He just . . . needs time to get over himself. I promise, everything will be okay again."_

She supposed this had been a good decision, after all. She'd had a good night's sleep for the first time in as long as she could remember—smutty dream included, which had been a pleasant surprise. Her maternal grandparents had welcomed her with open arms, and the sweet, fresh air, scented heavily by the dense forest that ringed the village seemed just the thing to clear her head.

Stepping from the bathroom, changed into a fresh t-shirt and jeans—she kept her beaded bag tied securely to a belt loop, it held her wand as a precaution, and only as much as was believable to Muggle eyes, which in this case was her wallet and change purse—she stopped by her room to put her nightclothes and troubling knickers in her hamper and shove her feet into her trainers.

_"Hermione?"_

"Oh." Of course the elderly couple would already be awake—that was par for the course with older people, wasn't it? "Coming, Gran!"

As she hurried down the cottage's unnecessarily narrow staircase, she heard a rumbling sound. It was gone the moment she passed the window that opened unto the woods behind the house.

Reaching the kitchen, she dropped a kiss on her grandmother's salt-and-pepper head. The sweet, round woman stood beside the stove preparing breakfast.

"Good morning, _mon ange!_ Are you hungry?"

"I am and it smells wonderful." She knew from the experience of offering to help with dinner last night that any suggestion that she assist would be soundly rebuffed by the very short, very determined Jean Marietta Mercier. Hermione asked as she pulled a chair out from the table to sit, "Do you have a dog?"

Gran turned to look at the young woman over her shoulder. "No. That's a strange . . . . Oh, I suspect you heard the wolf."

Hermione froze, her brows shooting upward. She knew this was the country, but still. "What wolf?"

Shaking her head, Gran returned her attention to cooking. "Oh, Henri caught him last night, trying to make a meal out of some of our chickens. He decided he's going to try to domesticate it. Train it to protect, instead."

"That's madness," Hermione said, trying to keep her tone respectful. Not easy when shrilly doubting the sanity of one's elder. "Grandfather shouldn't be doing that. He could get hurt, or he could hurt the wolf. It's barbaric and—"

Gran interrupted, singsong, "Try telling him that." Clearly, she'd already attempted this very same discussion with him.

"Well, I just suppose I will." Replacing the chair beneath the table, Hermione headed for the backdoor.

"Would you like some coffee?" Gran shouted after her.

"Yes, please. Thank you!" the witch called back as she ducked outside.

All she needed to do was follow the growling. Outside the walls of the house, it wasn't hard to hear at all. Around the back, down between the coups and the treeline of the forest, she found her grandfather.

And a beast prowling about in an immense chicken wire cage.

Hermione suddenly suspected this was not the first time the creature had victimized the livestock. Grandfather had evidently been planning for this if he had a cage this size at the ready.

Henri Baptiste Mercier looked crotchety upon first glance. Grizzled, the sort of man one would expect to be stern, always having a ready lecture on hand for anyone who even seemed like they might question his wisdom. But Hermione had known since she was a little girl that the heart beneath his rough exterior was as mushy as his visage was intimidating.

He turned at the sound of footsteps. "Not you, too," he said with a warm laugh, shaking his head.

She pulled up short, guessing she and her grandmother must share the same 'I've come to tell you why you're wrong' expression. Her shoulders slumped and she continued forward to stand beside him.

"It won't be the first time. I had a pet wolf as a boy," he informed his granddaughter proudly. "Jean worries too much. Besides, he's wounded, _and_ misshapen. I'm his best chance for survival. Go tell your grandmother to stop fussing."

She balked, a laugh bursting out of her. " _You_ go tell her to—"

"Hey, listen!"

Hermione froze, _listening_ as instructed. She didn't hear anything. Her skin grew icy a moment. She didn't hear _anything_. The wolf had stopped growling.

Grandpa nodded toward the beast. "It seems to like you. Maybe you have a way with wild animals, yes?"

Shaking her head, she offered a weak smile. "Oh, no. Probably just a coincidence."

Against her will, she turned her head, finally looking at the wolf.

It sat on the other side of the wire, staring at her. She saw immediately what her grandfather meant by it being 'misshapen.' Though it _mostly_ had the form of a wolf, the creature was long, wiry and . . . not an actual wolf at all.

But there was no way for a Muggle to know that.

The wounded limb tucked beneath its body—she suspected the purple dust she spied around the wound might be wolfsbane—she forced herself to acknowledge what she was seeing. There were probably wolfsbane coated traps surrounding some of the nearby wizarding villages. It probably barely escaped.

Wolfsbane kept a shift at bay if properly prepared and taken before the full moon rose. But getting a raw dose in their blood while shifted? She supposed it could result in this. Weakening the creature, making it unable to shift back. Raising the question of how long it had been stuck; the most recent full moon had been just over a week ago.

Hermione held in a sigh. She could imagine the first letter, already.

_Dear Harry,_

_On my first night in France, my grandfather caught a werewolf who was likely running for its life. It can't change back because it's got wolfsbane poisoning, oh, and he wants to keep it like a guard dog. I suspect if I can't find a way to treat the wound soon, it'll become septic and then the creature'll die, anyway. See all the fun you're missing?_

_Yes, I could've just stayed in England if I wanted my loved ones to scare me._

_No, trouble does_ not _follow me, wipe that smug smirk off your face._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . Aaaaand I'm back ^_^  
> * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
> You had a lot of 'how didn't she recognize Fenrir?' questions. In the DH book-canon, we're given a distinct, deliberately unappealing description of wartime-Fenrir. The differences between that version of him and the version Hermione sees in chapter 1 (in other words, the way we think of him in fanfiction), and reason for said differences, are explained in this chapter.

The moment that little Potter whelp had struck down the Dark Lord, he'd been freed. Oh, not that it'd do him much bloody good, being that he had the misfortune of having been on the Ministry's Undesirables list since _long_ before his war crimes.

Fenrir Greyback had never been a saint, not even bloody close—he was a lowborn brute, a bastard in both senses of the term, and frankly a bit of a drunk—but the picture of the savage beast who'd eventually fallen to cannibalism and committed murder every second day was _all_ the Dark Lord's twisted doing. However, he didn't imagine a restored Ministry would care much for his reasons, only his crimes. Taking reason into account when assigning punishment was a luxury reserved for the so-called good guys.

Not that part of him—most of him, possibly—didn't revel in the chaos he created for Voldemort. That most feral bit of his heart rejoiced, in fact. In that constant commotion, that eternal havoc with which Fenrir had surrounded himself, it was easy to forget he existed in misery. Alone. Always.

If he were going to give himself over to the wretched quiet of loneliness, he'd damn well do it on his own terms. Yet, he knew not a soul who'd survived the battle would allow him anything that resembled peace.

It wouldn't be Azkaban for a creature such as he, not this time. He'd be executed.

Now, his mind cleared and his stomach churned. His entire body was ill, soured and sickly, weighed down by the atrocities he'd committed in the name of all the things the Dark Lord had promised to those afflicted by the lycanthropy curse. He knew freedom—for him, at least—was exactly as impossible as it had been _before_ Voldemort had offered it.

If he stayed . . . .

That unfinished, yet so already so painfully understood, thought driving him, Fenrir ran. He was not the fearful sort, nothing frightened him much, but he could not live hunted. He'd existed that way before, death would be kinder and he was not terribly eager to hand himself over to the Reaper's clammy, bony clutches, either.

He'd taken advantage of his abilities, of his nature that permitted him to shift no matter the phase of the moon nor time of day—he bolted into the woods and took the form of a wolf. No one who might glimpse him would be able to get close enough to spot the differences between himself and a true wolf. Of course, there were no more wild wolves native to the British Isles; perhaps they'd mistake him for a large dog. A tad insulting that, but no matter.

The forest welcomed him as human cities never had. Home. He hunted the land, slept beneath the forest canopy, sought the shelter of caves from the rain. Understanding he'd not be safe to exist freely anywhere in Britain, he'd shifted back and stowed away on the Hauts-de-France Express—the Wizarding transit line that followed the Muggles' Channel Tunnel.

Once on the other side of the Channel, he'd exited the train—without waiting for a full stop, thanks very much—and returned to his run. He stuck to the country, of course.

As the days passed, the sickness in his gut eased. The illness in his body finally subsided. Not until he'd shifted back for the simple pleasure of bathing in a cool, crisp stream, did he realize how different he'd become in such a short time.

The face staring back at him from the gently rippling surface was no longer marred by sickly blemishes and fever blisters. He was _fully_ shifted back—he couldn't remember the last time he'd done that, even on the train he'd hidden his partially-shifted form beneath a nicked cloak—the overgrowth of hair usually covering his face because the Dark Lord commanded he keep himself right on the brink, ready to shift at a moment's notice, had receded to no more than a long, scruffy beard.

He felt himself go very still as he stared at his reflection, a chill washing through the pit of his stomach. The man returning his gaze was a stranger. Fenrir had shifted back quickly, not liking the sensation that crawled through him as he'd watched the expression of confusion on his own all-too-human face. That olive skin, smooth save for some scars, no longer felt like his own.

Life was so simple here in the forests, moving among the shadows and the moonlight. . . . Until the night he'd skirted a little too close to that Wizarding town.

The pain that had shot through his leg has he ran told him precisely what he'd missed. He moved faster than a true wolf, able to pull his leg free from the trap as soon as he'd set his paw on the release mechanism, but not quick enough to avoid its metal teeth entirely.

He'd meant to keep to the woods, still, even as he tried to shift back and realized he was stuck. The scent had been buried—clever French wizards to cover the wolfsbane so a werewolf would be less likely to avoid getting caught—but now the damnable powder was in his blood, working its way through him.

Days—and many attempts to clean the wound on his own, trapped in wolf form—passed when he happened upon _it._ This part of the forest was . . . _wrong_ , somehow. Yet it appealed in a way that might've drawn a less suspicious creature closer. Strange, deep, pulling. He didn't enter, but he could spy in the distance a dark shape. Probably the makings of a town abandoned long ago for one reason or another.

Another day's travel and he reached the edge of a Muggle village. A severe-looking old man was tending chickens on a farm that bordered the tree-line. Fenrir's stomach rumbled, but he knew it wasn't wise to stay so close to the locals. Night was falling and he needed to hunt, needed to find a place to conceal himself as he planned what to do next.

Then he caught her scent. _Her._ The girl he'd wanted—but not taken—during the War. The Muggleborn witch who was known throughout Wizarding Britain for her intellect and forthrightness, as much as she was for her fiery temper and snap judgments.

His movements were not his own, the curiosity compelling him too powerful for his wolfsbane-poisoned limbs to disobey. It had pulled him out of safety, into the open beyond the shelter of the trees.

As he'd neared those damnable chickens—all clucking themselves silly over his approach—the old man had caught him. Everything had happened so fast. He didn't speak French, but the man said something that he translated as best he could to mean that he'd hoped a wolf might happen along one day, he'd missed having a pet.

Oh, that had to be wrong. A pet? _Him?_ Yet, before he knew it, there he was in a cage. Brilliant.

He settled down, letting himself calm despite the sudden spike of rage and indignation at this turn of events. This might be as good a place to rest and collect his thoughts as any for the time being, he supposed.

Fenrir watched the country house, minding the lights in the windows.

Aware after a time which room was hers, once the windows had gone dark, he lay his head on his front legs and closed his eyes. He had only one tool at his disposal now. He wasn't even sure it would work, but he needed to try, at least.

The Wizarding world had no idea werewolves excelled at Legilimency—he hadn't the foggiest notion why, likely something to do with being pack animals by nature was his best guess. If he could get in her head, perhaps rather than plucking out her thoughts, he could leave one of his own. A message; a plea.

He found himself strangely cautious of frightening her when once he'd have relished the notion. She wouldn't listen if she glimpsed him there, in her thoughts—as far as he was aware, she was still terrified of him. He didn't know if she would notice him at all, if this would work at all, but he wasn't willing to risk it. The only way he would succeed would be if she didn't recognize him.

That was when he remembered the change in his appearance since war's end.

Recalling the face staring back at him from that cool, rippling water—that unfamiliar, no longer so feral face—he kept that image firmly locked in his mind and reached out. His intent must've derailed a dream she was about to slip into, he thought, because the next thing he knew, he felt that imagined version of himself standing on the other side of that window which had so held his attention. As real to his mind as if he stood there in the flesh.

That was when she'd sat up and stared at him. That was when her gaze had moved over him in a strange and alluring mix of greed and innocent curiosity.

It was as her wandering eyes drifted lower across his form that he'd opened his mouth, trying to get the words out. But his voice would not obey. He tried again, and still nothing.

That was when he realized he must've expended too much effort getting in her head. He didn't say a word to her, because his own miscalculation had rendered this dreamed version of himself mute.

He'd have to try again. When he was rested, fed, stronger. He meant to retreat for now, to bide his time—he had nothing _but_ time. Yet, then she did the one thing he'd never imagined she would if they had a hundred lifetimes.

She invited him into her bed.

Everything that followed had been pure instinct. For both of them, it seemed.

It was startling to awake back in his cage, back in his wounded, shift-stuck body. Bright morning sunlight forced him to shut his eyes tight nearly as fast as he'd snapped them open.

That grizzled old Muggle approached the wire enclosure, pushing some meat into the cage and backing away on quick footfalls. If Fenrir were human, he'd have simply shrugged and hunkered down, accepting the meal. But in his current form, his natural inclination was to growl at the biped in a horribly powerless show of self-defense even as his stomach rumbled madly at the sight and smell of food.

The old man appeared delighted with himself, chatting away excitedly at the wolf in French. Until a voice called out to him, a voice Fenrir recognized from that day at Malfoy Manor during the War.

The voice belonged to the witch he'd just spent the night with in a dreamed reality. The growling in his throat stopped without his notice as she and the old man bickered in English as only family could, their undertones affectionate. Her grandfather? Yes, that made sense.

But then the old man drew her attention to Fenrir. He could only stare back at her as she gaped. There was some flicker of recognition there, he thought. She had no idea what Fenrir Greyback looked like in his wolf form, but she _did_ know the difference between a shifted werewolf and a natural wolf.

Her gaze traveled over him—he fought not to remember last night, at least not at this moment, the curiosity in her eyes just now was wildly different—landing on his wounded limb. The way her eyes widened, he knew, or well, guessed, she'd spotted the remnants of wolfsbane powder along the jagged skin and matted fur.

Muggle-born witch Hermione Granger swallowed hard as she returned her gaze to the wolf's. As her grandfather pivoted to look at the creature once more, himself, she carefully mouthed the words _, I'll help you_.

Fenrir felt the anxiety winding through his gut fade away in a heartbeat. She might not know it was him, he might've been wholly unable to deliver his plea for assistance last night, but still she'd proved to be the only hope he had.

She turned away and Fenrir watched her go before settling down to finally eat.

* * *

As it turned out, Hermione's first letter to Harry did _not_ include mention of her grandfather's new 'pet.' She wasn't even certain how she'd begin to explain the situation. It was madness, and seeing as Harry didn't have a positive view of the creatures—thinking of Remus as the only exception to the stories about their behavior—she didn't imagine he'd understand her desire to help the poor thing.

She sat outside a little café, quaint and sweet as the rest of the village, itself, it seemed. Her journal open before her, she held her pen—lovely, entirely Muggle ballpoint pen with rich, blue ink—poised over the page. What _would_ she say?

Perhaps describe how pretty the Maison des Loups was. Or how pleasant and clean the air smelled compared to London. How oddly nice it was to have the forest so close it hugged the village borders. She intended to take a long, quiet walk through the wilderness later.

Not that she had much choice on that part. If she was going to create any sort of potion or elixir to slip into the werewolf's food or water to sedate him long enough to clean the wound of that powder, she'd need to do it away from prying eyes. Indeed, even cleaning the wound would not be enough on its own, she'd have to find a way to mix up some sort of cleansing potion to purge whatever wolfsbane lingered in his blood. A nature walk seemed the perfect solution. Hermione could hope the werewolf had understood her message earlier and would simply cooperate, but she couldn't count on it.

Whoever that was, they were in the form of a wild animal, _and_ they were wounded. There was every chance they were exactly as vicious as misinformed myths of the creatures had been designed to make humans believe.

She chewed at her lip as the kindly middle-aged woman from the counter brought out her coffee and pastry. "Oh, thank you." Hermione was careful not to convey her gratitude in French. She was well aware that while she didn't speak very much of it, learning what she did know from people raised by native speakers of the language granted her authentic pronunciation, which sometimes led other native speakers to _continue_ speaking, assuming she understood every word that fell from their lips.

Fortunately for her, Mum had insisted that the population of Maison des Loups was equally fluent in English—and German, for the record—due to some stationing debacle during World War II.

"You're welcome." The woman smiled warmly. "You're her, aren't you? Jean and Henri's granddaughter?"

Hermione nodded before taking a sip. And then tried not to let out any inappropriate sound of appreciation. The coffee was divine. "Yes. They recommended I stop by here, in fact. You must be Yvette?"

"I am. I should've guessed when you were inside." Her smile broadened, but her eyes took on a faintly melancholic glint. "You are the spitting image of Dahlia."

"You know my mother?" Immediately Hermione felt silly for asking—if Yvette knew Jean and Henri, and her mother had left town only after meeting Dad as a teenager, then _of course_ she knew Mum.

"I do. She's visiting, too?"

"No, just me."

"Ah," Yvette said quietly, nodding. "I don't suppose that's a surprise. She must still think of Isabeau when she remembers home."

Hermione's brows pulled together. "Isabeau?"

Looking alarmed at the girl's lost expression, misinterpreting the source, Yvette offered in an uncertain tone, "It's not my intention to bring up bad memories. I'm sorry." She went back to smiling. "Enjoy, and good day."

The woman bustled back inside, the air around her as sunny as it had been before she'd slipped. Unable to stop her hand from moving across the page, Hermione jotted down _Isabeau?_

She was rather certain she'd never heard her mother mention that name in her life.


End file.
